


untitled

by epilanthanomai



Category: Batman Begins (2005)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-22
Updated: 2005-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:38:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1634411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epilanthanomai/pseuds/epilanthanomai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-movie, Bruce tracks down Crane in Metropolis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Arabella (Airavanya)

 

 

Alfred didn't come with him to Metropolis, so when he pops a stitch tying his bow tie there's no one around to sew him up again. He has gauze in his luggage. He has an extra shirt but no spare tie. He'll have to go without. People will notice--the press always notice--but it will only help build his image. Besides, Lex won't mind. He did his own share of flaunting being above social niceties.

A birthday party for a Luthor is always a grand occasion, but here more than anywhere else he finds himself relaxing. The sharks here are circling Lex, and he's more than equipped to handle them. He finds a corner to stand in, and watches Lex move through the room. He's still slick--better at handling people than Bruce ever was--but he's steelier than Bruce remembers. They were both young and angry at school, lacking fathers in all the way that mattered, and they've both changed. Lex is alternating pandering to these people and showing open contempt. He's throwing challenging looks at Bruce. But Bruce is tired, and he doesn't have time to justify himself to Lex. He's never had to justify himself to him before.

Bruce tucks a blond under his arm and lifts another flute of champagne off a passing tray. He says, "Let's go looks at the kitchens," and doesn't bother to wait for her to agree before leading her to the back of the banquet hall. He shoves the double doors open with his free hand, downing the glass of champagne and dropping it behind him. He pulls her closer to him and checks behind him. A woman in chartreuse has pointed him out to a friend. Soon, everyone at the party will know where he's gone.

He walks the blond past a fleet of tuxedoed waiters to the walk-in freezers. She shivers and gives a delighted squeak. He pushes her against the door and pauses to look at her. Her dress is too low-cut, and she has breast implants. At least her diamonds are real. He takes her champagne, tosses it back, and says, "I need another drink."

Startled, she stops smiling. She says, "What?"

He sneers at her. This time it isn't even faked. "Another drink. Go on. Get me a drink."

She resurrects her smile. "Okay. I'll be back. Don't you move."

He smacks her on the ass to hurry her on her way. He's tired, and the champagne has gone to his head, but this is his only chance to find Scarecrow before the Joker tracks him down to Metropolis. Bruce's source told him that Crane had settled in one spot, but there was no guarantee he'd stay. The source had skipped town after the Batman had gotten the information out of him, and this is all he has to go on. He'll improvise. He'll go in without the suit, and he'll improvise. He's wearing a black t-shirt under his clothes. He leaves his suit jacket and shirt in the kitchen. Someone will return them to him.

Crane's in an abandoned building in Metropolis's Chinatown, and Bruce has to navigate past buckets of live fish and crabs crawling over each other, seeking out fresh water. Turtles the size of his thumb make circuits in a shallow tub. The champagne in his stomach sloshes. It's cold in just an undershirt. Hurrying down Mulberry Street he skirts a silk merchant shaking dust from scarves and shawls. He runs his fingers down a bolt of brocade. The shop smells of smoked tea and beef tallow. An old woman pours two cups of gunpowder green tea. He watches the leaves unfurl, staining the water jade. He breathes in the steam. He wraps his fingers around the smooth curve of the cup. There's a flaw in the glaze, in the heat seeping through the clay. A weakness. The place it would shatter. He raises the cup to his mouth--life-saving warmth, in the cold, far from home, sipping under Ducard's gaze and wondering from where the next attack will come. The security of knowing that it will come, and that he will beat it back. That he is being crafted into something better. Bruce opens his eyes. The world reels, then drops into focus.

He leaves money on the counter. He will find Crane before the Joker does. He feels the knowing of it, the power of that knowledge, tightening in his chest. It warms him.

Crane's living with the queer punk squatters on Union Street. Bruce turns the thought over in his mind: buttoned-up Crane, living with dirty punks. Crane, living with pierced and dyed and insolent boys. Sharing coffee with squatter chicks. Having curry with pickpockets. He laughs a little at Crane surrounded by anarchists. It should be Scarecrow there, playing on their fears, urging them into chaos, but it's not. The Scarecrow is gone. Bruce unclenches his fists--tries to dispel the feel of fire, flames too-warm and too-close. Scarecrow, capricious as fire. Too close.

He breathes in his fear, breath fluttering like bat wings against his face, slow breath out. In, out. He's reached the house. The bass is so loud it's rattling the foundations, a low vibration in his chest, ringing in his ears. Breathe out.

They've gutted the building. The dusty smell of fresh drywall is cut by new paint. The staircases are retiled--they must have used whatever they could find, blues and oranges, greens at the second floor landing. He sees some numbers, and a trio of swans. There are no doors in the doorways, just rooms leading into rooms leading into rooms. On the second floor there's a hot plate in one corner and a bunch of kids brewing matte. The party's spilled out from the third floor to the stairs below. A boy on the landing offers him a smoke, but he turns him away with a smile. He doesn't want to be remembered in conversation.

He finds Crane in one of the bedrooms on the third floor. Crane is sitting in an armchair and for a moment Bruce thinks that he hasn't changed at all, but this isn't the Crane of before. Before was waistcoats and lips pressed tightly closed. Before was kept secrets. This isn't Scarecrow either--his hair is mussed but there's no manic gleam in his eyes. There's no tightly-wound energy, no gleeful terrorizing. This Crane isn't capable of malice. Crane meets his gaze. He says, "Hello Batman." Bruce feels a split-second of dislocation--a quick question--what is he wearing, how is his voice: who should speak now? Crane blinks slowly, dilated pupils swallowing all the light in the room. He says, "Mr Wayne." He tests out the syllables, letting them stretch and slip into each other until they're nearly nonsense sounds. "Mr Wayne. What are you doing here?" He tilts his head and squints. "Are you here for treatment?"

Bruce is getting jostled by dancing punks--rough and slender, in heavy boots and ripped shirts, in black eyeliner and red lips. A boy in glitter puts his hands on Bruce's hips. His stitches open again. A girl is laughing--laughing and spinning, her nipples dark through the thin cotton of her wife beater--everything loud and whirling, frantic dancing and Crane--wide-eyed, blinking calmly--Crane says, "What are you afraid of, Mr Wayne?"

Bruce grabs Crane's wrist--feels the bones grind together, fragile--feels Crane yield. He is loose-limbed and careless, smooth-skinned as these children. His lips are red, too. Bruce pulls Crane to his feet and pushes him through the crowd, dodging elbows and invitations. He grips Crane's upper arm--pinning him in place, holding him up--and hails a taxi. He still remembers where to find a cheap hotel in Metropolis.

They ride in silence. Crane rests his hands on his lap--loose tweed trousers--then folds them. Ragged cuffs. Borrowed clothes. He seems sane. He meets Bruce's eyes again. "And now that you have me, what are you going to do with me? You can't put me in Arkham," he says, "I know it too well. Arkham would never hold me."

Bruce smiles. Sane enough. "I could imprison you here."

Crane tsks, looking disappointed. "They don't know Batman here, Mr Wayne. They wouldn't take your word. And Dr Crane is renowned in his field. I could convince them that _you're_ the patient."

"I'm Bruce Wayne, Dr Crane. And you don't have I.D."

Crane folds his hands. "And there we are. So what are you going to do with me?"

Bruce can see Crane's pulse beating in his throat. He's even skinner now. Still pale. "What medications are you taking, Doctor?"

A small smile. Crane looks more like he used to than he has since Bruce found him. "Diazepam. High doses." He hesitates. "Sometimes I smoke with the kids. They like to give it to me." Another pause. He blinks again, opens drowsy eyes. "Why, do you want some?"

Bruce pays the cabbie and opens Crane's door. When Crane just looks up at him he pulls him from the car. "I need to know what to give you to keep you--" Now he's the one hesitating.

"Sane, Mr Wayne? Or just quiet? I promise not to make any more mischief."

Crane is a passive weight. Bruce keeps having to prod him forward. Blood is sticking his shirt to the open wound on his arm. He won't look, but he's pretty sure it's bled enough to show below the sleeve of his shirt. He pushes Crane against the front desk in the lobby and holds him there with one hand. "A room, please."

Crane turns his head to look at the desk clerk. "Yes, a room please. The two of us would like a room for the night."

Bruce tightens his hand on Crane's chest, trying to get him to shut up. Crane smiles back at him. Bruce avoids looking at the clerk and pays cash.

In the room Crane sits in the only chair. He takes a pill bottle from his pocket and dry swallows a pair. "Are you sure you don't want one, Mr Wayne?"

Bruce can't help wincing. "Please, it's not necessary to call me Mr Wayne."

"What then? Batman? Should I call you Batman, Mr Wayne?" That devilish grin is coming back. He lounges in the chair. "Do you like to be called Batman even in street clothes, Mr Wayne? Even in bed? Do you need to dress up to achieve orgasm, Batman?"

Bruce walks over to the window. He won't let himself be baited. This anger is useful. This anger will help him. Batman needs this anger. Fear leads to anger and anger helps him frighten the criminals preying on the weak. "I'd rather Mr Wayne, thanks." His voice is still his. He still sounds like Bruce.

"Batman, then. The Bat Man." He lingers over the syllables. "Is that what you want your lovers to say? Not Bruce Wayne, not that name, not Wayne. Do your lovers get hot for your father's name?"

Bruce grits out, "Don't talk about my father," and he's moving already, he cuts off Crane's "Is that a problem, Mr--" with his right fist. Crane drops--glass jaw--but he's grinning still. Bruce picks him up by his collar and Crane licks at the blood on his lip. "Like violence with your sex, Wayne?"

Bruce recoils, snatching his hands back from Crane. Crane hits the floor hard, his head knocking against the thinning carpet. He flinches, thin shoulders twisting, and angles his head to look at Bruce. "I think we need to have a session, Mr Wayne. I think you need to tell me about your childhood. I think," and he picks himself up, approaching Bruce slowly, "you need to tell me about your father."

Bruce feels his hands tighten into fists. His right arm is aching, wet with fresh blood and wire tight with tension.

Crane gives him an admonishing glance. "Are you going to hit me again, Mr Wayne?"

He's too close. Bruce turns his head so he doesn't have to look at him. He controls his anger. His anger does not control him. He controls his anger. His anger does not control him. He controls his--

Crane has reached for the button of Bruce's pants. His lips are incredibly red. They look soft. His hands are soft. His pupils are huge, the skin of his jaw smooth as a boy's, blueing where Bruce hit him, reddening, his lips soft, red, smooth. His grip is firm--the collar of his fraying shirt gaping, exposing the smooth, sharp points of his collarbone, more porcelain skin--he twists his hand a little. Bruce closes his eyes; keeps in a moan. There must be more of that porcelain skin.

Crane says, "Open your eyes." Bruce surprises himself by obeying. Crane says, "Keep your eyes on me." Bruce does. Crane says, "I want to hear you moan," and Bruce does, easily, letting the sounds flow out of him.

"Oh, God, your hands." He sways back but there is nothing behind him to hold him up.

"Yes, my hands. My hands, Mr Wayne." He twists again, reaching for a firmer grip, using his other hand to pinch Bruce's nipples through the cloth of his shirt. Left, then right. Hard, but not hard enough.

Bruce clears his throat. "Harder."

"Harder, Mr Wayne? No, I don't think so." He keeps his pace steady. "I think this is quite enough." He tightens his grip a little more.

Bruce can't look away. Red, soft lips, God, good, tight grip, so hot, Crane's satisfied face. He won't plead. God. "Please."

"No."

It's almost enough, just a little harder, "Please."

Crane smiles. He says, "No," and Bruce comes. His knees lock and his eyes shut, he's so loud, gasping, and Crane says nothing. He doesn't make a sound.

Bruce sways and catches his balance. Crane wipes his hands on Bruce's shirt and rebuttons his pants. He goes into the bathroom to wash his hands, but he's watching Bruce in the mirror. He smiles when he catches Bruce looking. He dabs at the cut on his lip with a hand towel, then tosses the towel on the bed. Then it's back to the armchair, looking as though he'd never left it. He says, "What now, Mr Wayne? What are you going to do with me?"

Bruce can't find it in himself to smile back. "You can't stay here," he says. "I found you too easily."

Crane grins then. Or Scarecrow grins. He's grinning. "Why would I have a problem with being found?"

"You hid yourself here, you just didn't do it well enough. You don't want the Joker finding you."

"And why is that, Mr Wayne?"

"He'd use you up and leave you for dead, Crane, and you know it. Hide better."

Crane stands, then, and stretches. He brushes dust from the sleeve of his ripped shirt. "Find me again, sometime, Mr Wayne. You'll find my rates quite reasonable." He walks out, and Bruce doesn't stop him.

 


End file.
